Won't it help you to know this, Reuther? Your mother, who has had
her griefs, will bless you."
"Mother, mother!"
That night, at a later hour, Deborah struggled with a great
temptation.
The cap which hung in Oliver's closet--the knife which lay in the
drawer of Oliver's desk--were to her mind positive proofs of his
actual connection with the crime she now wished to see buried for
all time in her husband's grave. The threat of that unknown
indicter of mysterious letters, I KNOW A WITNESS, had sunk deep
into her mind. A witness of what? Of anything which the discovery
of these articles might substantiate? If so, what peril remained
in their continued preservation when an effort on her part might
so easily destroy them.
Sleep, long a stranger to her pillow, forsook her entirely as she
faced this question and realised the gain in peace which might be
hers if cap and knife were gone. Why then did she allow them to
remain, the one in the closet, the other in the drawer? Because
she could not help herself. Instinct was against her meddling with
these possible proofs of crime.
But this triumph of conscience cost her dear. The next morning
found her pale--almost as pale as Reuther. Was that why the judge
surveyed her so intently as she poured out the coffee, and seemed
more than once on the point of addressing her particularly, as she
went through the usual routine of tidying up his room?
She asked herself this question more than once, and found it
answered every time she hurried by the mirror.
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